Джеймс Хилтон - Time And Time Again

One June afternoon during his leave Charles had just made such a descent when a young woman came cycling up the drive. Without any introduction or preamble she exclaimed, amidst her own astonished laughter: ‘What on earth are you doing? You came shooting out as if it was the Tunnel of Love or something… Have you hurt your arm?’

‘No,’ said Charles, ‘but I’ve torn my trousers, that’s why I’m keeping my hand there… Is there—er—anything I can do for you?’

‘I’m your new neighbour—Jane Coppermill—we’ve just moved into Burton Bridgwater. I thought I’d pay a call.’

‘Delighted. I’m Charles Anderson. My father’s in the house somewhere. This is a fire-drill we have once a year or so… Those top rooms—as you can see—a regular trap. I believe the insurance company recommended this contrivance.’ He felt he had to offer some plausible reason for it all. ‘Excuse me and I’ll go in and change, if you don’t mind hanging around till I come back.’

‘Can’t I go in and meet your father?’

‘Why, er—certainly, if you wish.’

She leaned her bicycle against the portico and entered the house with him. As they crossed the hall she whispered: ‘Tell me first, though—is it true he’s a little mad?’

Charles answered: ‘Yes, we all are. The Mad Andersons. Didn’t you know that? We’re the talk of the county.’ How else could one deal with such a question? He would rather have snubbed her, but he could not think of a snub in time, so the badinage would have to do, and if she caught behind it a reproof, so much the better. Meanwhile, without helping her to search for Havelock, he left her standing in the hall and went upstairs. When he came down she had apparently gone without seeing Havelock, but Havelock had seen her through the window and asked who she was. Charles explained.

‘Yes, I heard somebody had bought Burton Bridgwater,’ he mused. ‘Coppermill—COPPERMILL. If it’s the newspaper Coppermills, they’re rich.’

They were indeed, and Jane was their youngest child. Not so much of a child, though. She was thirty-one, unmarried, and completely unafraid— even of remaining a spinster. She went through life armoured by personality, so that she could be herself, whatever behaviour that involved, and more often than not she got away with it because it was all over, clearly well meant and forgivable, before anyone could stop her. She was not pretty, but she was healthy and vigorous and lively, and there were times when one examined her features separately and wondered why the total did not add up to real beauty, but the very fact of wondering made the discrepancy less. She had clear blue eyes and a downright look. She would talk to a butcher boy, if she met him in the course of her day’s affairs, as abruptly and frankly as she would to the Third Secretary of a Legation (Charles had recently been so promoted). This was not because she felt herself to be consciously democratic, but simply because a natural inclination to follow her impulses had been reinforced by long experience that she could always afford the luxury.

During this particular leave Charles did not see her again, but a few months later when he was back at work he was called to the Legation telephone; it was Jane Coppermill, just ashore from a cruise liner. She would be staying in the city for three days and wondered if they could meet. Charles was mildly pleased, for he suddenly thought of the Tunnel of Love and realized that his life in the neutral capital, though increasingly agreeable, was still somewhat lacking in fun. Unfortunately all three evenings were taken up with official engagements he could not get out of—one of them a rather big reception which all the corps diplomatique would attend. After he had explained this she said: ‘Oh, tell your boss I’m here— he’ll probably invite me.’ Afterwards Charles thought it would have been more correct for her to announce her own arrival, if she knew the Treveses, but it was too late then to suggest it. When Treves came in later that afternoon Charles mentioned that Jane Coppermill had telephoned. Treves immediately remembered her. ‘Anyone would who was at Berne in those days.’

Charles looked his interest and Treves continued: ‘She must have been in her late teens then—at some finishing school—just before the war. The Minister was away and I was in charge, which made it all the worse —for me.’

‘What happened?’ Charles asked.

‘She fell into the bear-pit among the bears. It’s a well-known show place at Berne. Goodness knows how it happened. She poked at the bears with an umbrella to hold them off till she was rescued, but the keeper broke a leg doing it and the Swiss said it was all her fault. There was an enquiry and letters in the Berne papers—then London got to hear of it—oh, quite a set-to. In the end I believe her father had to pay the man a very handsome amount… The Bernese, you know, really love those bears. I think if she’d poked one in the eye even in self-defence we should have had a real international incident… She’s probably less of a hoyden now. Why don’t you ask her to the reception if she’s going to be here to-morrow?’ Charles said he would be glad to.

When he met her he was startled by her appearance. Naturally he had expected her to look very different in evening clothes from the only recollection he had of her—leaning on a bicycle in rough country tweeds; but he had not realized the strikingness of her. She was a woman one would look at twice and wonder who she was, whether or not one afterwards decided that it mattered. Moreover, her personality had an air of challenging without breaking the rather stiff protocol which marked the opening proceedings of a reception of this kind. Afterwards, of course, formalities could be relaxed, though it was still a wise precaution not to forget them altogether.

Charles had already discovered that in the small world of a diplomatic corps there were always white sheep whom one personally liked and could treat as friends, and black sheep whom one didn’t like or who represented countries suspect by one’s own government; but to all, of course, one must behave with correctness. So much was elementary, but a problem could arise when someone personally liked fell into the black category. This had recently happened in Charles’s world to a foreign Attaché named Davanrog, who had been very popular till his country did something unpopular, after which everyone was so sorry for Davanrog that he was in some danger of becoming more popular than ever. However, the cautionary word was slipped by Treves to his staff, with a resulting cancellation of several projected hunting and fishing trips. And Davanrog, who must have known there was nothing personal in it, probably did not take it too much to heart.

He was a fine-looking fellow, and when Charles saw Jane Coppermill greet him at the reception like an old friend he wondered if his own instant feeling could have any personal jealousy in it; but he decided not— after all, Jane was nothing to him, just a country neighbour he had met once and hadn’t bothered to meet again till she herself made the effort. They had met for this second time with cordiality, but no more—not as much, it would seem, as there was between her and Davanrog. Charles wished, though, he had had a chance to tell her that Davanrog, for purely political reasons, was somewhat out of favour with the British; noticing that Treves also had his eye on her, he hoped his chief would not feel he was to blame. It was not clear how he could be, but the niceties of diplomatic behaviour were apt to carry such vague and indefinable responsibilities. Anyhow, Charles was relieved when he saw her leave Davanrog and allow herself to be taken to supper by one of the Dutchmen, with whom she also seemed extremely cordial; but Charles was troubled again when, after a minimum of polite circulation amongst the throng, Davanrog made his excuses to the Treveses and left early. It was a perfectly proper thing to do, but it left glaringly obvious the fact that the man’s only fun at the party had been with Jane.